


lost ingle, crown of blackthorn

by antagonists



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10393989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: In the mountains, it is still cold, but Imbolc has passed and brought brighter colors to the grounds and skies. He has watched Ephraim from afar, a prince who wears soft crowns of flowers, the blessing of a goddess, of a sister, carved into the flesh of his back. Despite all the tenderness and sympathy at Ephraim’s fingertips, therein is something heavier and unkind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> basically it's just  
> ephraim: disgusting  
> chrom: nuts

* * *

 

 

 

One day before the first of Samhain, Chrom finds a human close to the shores of the otherworld.

 

He has hair like the stormy northern seas thick with ice, hair like the sky on unforgivingly cold and clear days. Though he must be freezing, he shivers not in the chill. There’s something rather odd in how still he stands, but nothing special in how it is so obvious he seeks one who has already passed. Humans are all the same in this regard—forever pining after the dead.

 

Chrom thinks it may just be another human attempting to cross over, as so many do around this time and around Beltane. Or perhaps even someone awaiting the arrival of the aos sí. He watches over the intangible border, here, eyeing the desperate living and spirit’s whimsy as he adjusts his black crown.

 

The human turns his eyes to Chrom once the moon has risen high, heavy and swollen like a silver goblet of wine. Chrom keeps his eyes slightly averted and is mildly taken aback when the man smiles at him, unafraid of death. It is not the first time a person has tried to lock gazes with him before, but it is still no less surprising. He has met many warriors who’d attempt to exchange stares with him, only to fall dead with the sight of bloody, bloody eyes as their end. Even without direct eye contact, there are so many who have turned to corpses on the spot.

 

“Are you here to cross?” Chrom asks, stepping up to the boundary, keeping his eyes trained away from the human’s eyes. On his lips, rather, and their delicate movements. “Or perhaps wishing to see a loved one once more?”

 

“I thought about it,” the human admits. He reaches out with one hand, considering the air between them. Chrom licks his lips, anticipating the exact moment the human would foolishly reach over and find himself suddenly under the weight of another world, under the weight of Chrom’s command. But this moment does not come; Chrom finds himself rather disappointed, leaning ever so slightly closer, eyes fixated on living flesh. The human returns his indirect stare, unfazed, hand still outstretched. His fingers are but a hair’s breadth from the otherworld.

 

“But no, I know it is impossible.”

 

“You’ve more control than most, then,” Chrom replies, and steps back. His boot crunches on a shattered skull—the human’s eyes flicker down to it momentarily before attempting to meet Chrom’s gaze again. “I’d looked forward to dragging you in.”

 

He’s surprised when the man smiles, and so fondly, too! It has been so long since Chrom has last seen such a genuine emotion directed towards himself that he does not know how to react. Instead, he draws his head high, knowing that he strikes an imposing figure with his dark robes and darker crown. He hopes that his eyes will give the human bloody nightmares.

 

“Must be lonely down here,” the human says. “And you look so young, not like a god of death at all.”

 

“Is that so,” Chrom says, and returns to watching the distant fires in the night.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“He is, milord, human,” Frederick says, voice echoing. The tip of his lance shines bright like his polished gauntlets do in the moonlight, and Chrom glances at them a moment before turning back to face the sky. He can taste the disapproval in the smoke. It’s especially pungent whenever Frederick is cross with him but too humble to voice otherwise. “You shouldn’t involve him in otherworldly affairs.”

 

“I’m not involving him,” Chrom says, irritable as he always is in the morning. Too much sunlight, even this late into Samhain. They do not need sleep—instead they watch how the world stirs as it rouses from slumber, a slow turning of the darkness and its stars into paling skies. Gold pierces the horizon, and he winces at the light. Once, sunrise had been a welcome sight—but now, his eyes sting with blood, and his paled skin feels as though it’s burning. “I’m just curious.”

 

Frederick sighs, breath fogging the air. It is difficult to see his eyes past the blasted helmet he insists on wearing, though the space above his neck clearly indicates how he had died. A clean cut. Regret, Chrom supposes, maybe even a way to atone for irreversible mistakes. The knight had been so _bitter_ when he’d first been raised, a beautiful image of human indelicacy and self-righteousness even in death.

 

Chrom revels in that—the feeling of watching others despair.

 

 _He hails from the East, Ephraim,_ is what his messengers tell him. A lonely man living atop the mountains as though it were a castle, looking down upon the snow and barren lands like a king upon a country abandoned to war. He’s very human in the way he sleeps and wakes, in how he walks and speaks; deeper, though, Chrom imagines something much crueler. He wants to unearth it, wants to taste it.

 

“Milord,” Frederick says chidingly, and Chrom sighs.

 

He looks away from the sunlight, wipes at his eyes to smear blood all over his cheeks.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In one of the mountain passes that Grima had once lain, freshly fallen snow covers centuries-old blood, hides the frosted skeletons and armor of warriors long since dead. Chrom enjoys watching the night pass here, remembering the troubles of an old friend, now sealed away within bones from the wishes of fairer gods and their peoples. It is the vivid history of bloodshed and battle that marks this place as a fond memory for him—terror in darkness, terror in steel, terror in a dragon’s fiery breath.

 

Chrom hadn’t been quite a king during his first battles here, but close enough. He’s grown used to the weight of his crown, anyhow, unable to bring himself to remove the thorny pain from his skull. When he walks, it is with the memory of walking down carpeted halls beneath crystal and gold, fancy draperies and polished jewel.

 

It is an overcast night. The clouds are heavy with snow to fall first thing in the morning, thickening the layer between unknowing wanderers and the remnants of forgotten souls below. It would be folly for those who are unfamiliar with this area wander through this pass, especially without the proper talismans to ward away troublesome fomors. He should be surprised that there is someone venturing these ranges, and yet he is not.

 

“You’re walking the pass with no protection?” Chrom asks. He cannot feel the prickly magic meant to keep fomors away; though they would work on lesser fomors, they are but passing annoyances to him. There is none of that on Ephraim’s person, nothing but a worn lance that smells suspiciously of otherworld craft, but far too clean to be anything but a deity’s work.

 

Chrom is at once wary.

 

“I’ve protection enough,” Ephraim says, and sits next to the risen king.

 

“You smell of goddess,” Chrom says, knowing that his lips are curling in disgust but doing nothing to hide it.

 

“Jealous?” Ephraim laughs. “I don’t imagine the king of the dead has much to be jealous of.”

 

Chrom sneaks a sideways glance, notes that the lance still has traces of blood that haven’t yet been wiped away. Somehow, the knowledge that Ephraim has perhaps killed someone—something—makes him giddy. There’s the hint of fomor blood in the air, rotten and curdling. He stills a shudder and returns to staring out at the snowy ravine, jagged rocks cut into the shape of a dragon’s skeleton. He closes his eyes to rewatch the memory of six ruby eyes, massive wings darker than a moonless night.

 

“I saw a dullahan at the foot of the mountain,” Ephraim says, comfortable in the silence of the peaks. “I thought he’d challenge me to a duel, but he let me pass.”

 

 _You ordered him to let me pass_ , seems to be the implied question. Chrom does not give answer to it.

 

In the mountains, it is still cold, but Imbolc has passed and brought brighter colors to the grounds and skies. He has watched Ephraim from afar, a prince who wears soft crowns of flowers, the blessing of a goddess, of a sister, carved into the flesh of his back. Despite all the tenderness and sympathy at Ephraim’s fingertips, therein is something heavier and unkind.

 

Memories, perhaps. Chrom has not gone searching for them, has left the damned fomors to feast on their collection of anamnestic treasures in peace, but intuition tells him it must be of something akin to a dear, dear friend. Lost to greedier hands, to the misfortunes of fate and her impartial judgment. This, he understands.

 

Ephraim kisses Chrom’s hand before he leaves, lips warm against frigid skin. Chrom does not respond, even as his breath seizes and his _want_ rears so fiercely he can scarce stay still. He watches Ephraim descend, memorizes the firm lines of his shoulders and back—and hungers.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There is a night that the crows do not return from scouting.

 

Chrom traces their fallen feathers, counts the steps to a spot in a field heavy with the remains of the Morrigan’s presence. He is sick with it. It is foul and unwelcome, makes his crown feel ever heavier and tighter, like an ill-placed noose of thorns. In the middle of it all stands Ephraim, foolish and unafraid, beautiful and sickening all at once. Chrom cannot bear to look at him.

 

“You have something of mine,” he hisses, leaning on his blade. Even the moonlight does not alleviate his migraine. Frederick’s mount whickers behind him, unsettled though its rider remains impassive.

 

“Ah, your little messenger,” Ephraim says. He’s smiling as though he’s enjoying his own little secret, though Chrom wouldn’t be surprised if there are many that he is not privy to. He sweeps one arm to the side in a grand gesture to reveal a golden cage in one hand. Within it is a rather large and disgruntled murder of crows, more well-behaved than Chrom has ever seen them before.

 

“Milord,” Frederick says warily, shifting atop his horse, but Chrom raises a hand to silence him.

 

“That cage is made of powerful magic,” Chrom observes, impressed and stepping closer the best he can. The Morrigan’s presence makes him sick, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let himself be overpowered. (It will happen, though; he knows).

 

“Well, they do get rather peckish.” Ephraim taps the top of the cage with a finger.  One of the birds cackles loudly, and Ephraim laughs in return; the crows echo the laughter. The cage shimmers, losing much of its substance, until it seems that the teeming mass of black is perched within Ephraim’s hand. “Last time you sent them to me, they tried gouging my eyes out.”

 

Chrom gives a mighty sigh and beckons to the crows. There’s a storm of black feathers and claws for a few moments—then it settles into the form of a familiar boy.

 

“Sorry, Henry,” Ephraim says. “I know you were being playful, but I can’t really seem friendly to messengers of death in front of the poor villagers.”

 

“You could have hexed your way out of there,” Chrom tells Henry.

 

“Oh, but you rather like having him untouched,” is the reply.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

 

But all Henry does is laugh and laugh, disappearing into the sky, piece by piece. Behind Henry’s laughter, Chrom can hear agony. The child had been a servant of the Morrigan, after all. This place brings back unwanted memories stronger than any other.

 

Chrom meets Ephraim’s eyes, realizing his mistake much too late. Where he expects him to keel over dead, however, Ephraim tilts his head instead, an amused curve to his lips.

 

“Leave us,” Chrom says to Frederick, tongue thick in his mouth. He does not look back up until he can no longer smell the disapproval through the smoke in the wind.

 

Tall stone is scattered around them, like the last persevering bits of a fallen castle. He glares openly at Ephraim, now, tasting the lingering sweetness of a former pantheon and nearly gagging from it. While he knows he’s been lured here, it’s still quite difficult to truly despise these circumstances. It’s almost nice to be able to look someone in the eyes without having to collect their spirit and ferry it to the underworld. Someone alive, at least, and not quite completely a god.

 

He sinks to his knees, weak from the press of power around him.

 

“Disgusting,” Ephraim says, watching the tremble of Chrom’s legs rather fondly. “Death always has been, though, hasn’t it?”

 

“I could say the same for this place,” Chrom replies, breathing heavily around the taste of blood in his mouth. “Former house for worshippers of the Morrigan—smells absolutely foul.”

 

“I imagine it’s quite painful for you to be here,” Ephraim says, entirely unapologetic, and walks closer. There’s always purpose in how he moves and this time is no different. His fingers dance around the spikes of Chrom’s crown, trailing slowly downwards. “Yet here you are, kneeling before me.”

 

“Don’t pretend to be surprised.”

 

Ephraim tilts his chin upwards, smiling lightly, fingers rough from years of training and slaying fomors, probably. There it is, in his eyes—the ruthlessness of an unforgiving god, the greediness of man. Chrom exhales sharply, his knees aching. The night is cold, but he has long since forgotten the sensation of true chill on his skin. There are fingers in his hair, as gentle as they are merciless.

 

Chrom tilts his head back far enough for his crown to fall to the ground, a black mark shattering pale stone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> look, risen king chrom is good  
> but risen king chrom being dommed by ephraim is even _better_
> 
> celtic mythology isn't my specialty so lemme know if there's smth inaccurate (outside of some creative liberty) that needs fixing!
> 
> terry [drew a thing](http://alfheimr.tumblr.com/post/158692938774) and ive lost my shit i rly have


End file.
